


Gotham

by Snellby



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Monsters, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snellby/pseuds/Snellby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Promise me you'll never go into Gotham.”<br/>The sun was hanging low in the sky, staining the cornfields red and gold, Sitting on the porch beside his father, a large book cradled in his lap, fourteen-year-old Clark Kent bathed in the light's fading glow, feeling its warmth settle heavy in his bones.<br/>“Why not?” The boy asked, eyes scanning over the glossy photos printed on the pages below. There was Gotham, in all of its timeless splendor; towering buildings of stone and steel, stunning architecture and untold adventure. He was young, naive.<br/>“The sun never shines in Gotham.” His father continued, eyes wandering over the fields. “Someone like you...it'd kill you.”</p><p>____</p><p>Clark Kent had always been warned to stay away from Gotham; away from the monsters that stalked the streets, and the darkness that had seeped into its very foundations.  He'd spent his entire life feeling like an outcast, as his alien nature made him adverse to the magic and wonder of his adopted home planet.  However, during a chance encounter with Gotham's elusive "Batman", Clark finds himself thrown into a battle that's been unfolding in the shadows for centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotham

**Gotham City, 1928**

* * *

  


Blood…

There was blood everywhere; spattered over the cobblestones beneath his hands, seeping into the crisp white material of his dress shirt.  He could feel it on his skin, cooling slowly, too slowly.  

It was theirs...his parent’s blood.  

Bruce screamed.   

  


**Smallville, Kansas,  2001**

* * *

  


“Promise me you'll never go into Gotham.”

The sun was hanging low in the sky, staining the cornfields red and gold, Sitting on the porch beside his father, a large book cradled in his lap, fourteen-year-old Clark Kent bathed in the light's fading glow, feeling its warmth settle heavy in his bones.

“Why not?” The boy asked, eyes scanning over the glossy photos printed on the pages below. There was Gotham, in all of its timeless splendor; towering buildings of stone and steel, stunning architecture and untold adventure. He was young, naive.

“The sun never shines in Gotham.” His father continued, eyes wandering over the fields. “Someone like you...it'd kill you.”

Jonathan Kent's hands twisted and turned, bending thin, green, willowboughs, forming them into a small knot that he pressed firmly into his son's palm.

“Did Ma see something?” Clark asked, trying not to flinch away from the hot magic emanating from the small object. His father didn't reply.

After a while, the boy went back this book, turning his attention to the modern skyscrapers of glistening Metropolis; the city of magic and progress.

“Stay away from bats.” Pa finally whispered, his cryptic words floating heavy in the air. “They don't like sunlight very much.”

  


**Gotham City, Present Day**

 

* * *

 

Smog had always dominated the Gotham skyline, even as far back as the bygone days of his youth. The brown haze–heavy, thick, and cloying–had once spewed forth from endless rows of proud factories, each one a monument to the city's ingenuity, a glorious example of the American Dream.

Now, all those factories lay dormant, empty wounds for evil and corruption to fester. They lined his city on all sides, inescapable, unforgettable. For the young, that was the way things had always been, but Bruce Wayne...Bruce could remember.

“Master Bruce, your breakfast.”

Bruce turned away from the window overlooking his crumbling city, to flash a small smile at his ever-loyal butler, Alfred. No one had been at his side longer than he. No one else had refused to leave him, even as he spiraled further and further into the madness of...his _condition._ Alfred was a good soul...

A good _soul_ indeed.

The butler flitted away for a moment, disappearing in a puff of cold that Bruce could no longer feel, only to return with a letter in his hands. There were days when Bruce could forget that the kindly old man was a century-old spirit, his soul bound to the manor by ancient magics that no vampire could even go near.   However sometimes, close to the anniversary of his passing, Alfred’s clothes and face would suddenly be torn, his incorporeal body mauled by some giant taloned beast.  

This was not one of those days.

Delicately, with all the decorum of one well-versed in his craft, Alfred placed the letter on the edge of a silver tray, right beside the crystal class full of dark, crimson, blood.

“I almost forgot to deliver that to you.” The butler said, standing upright, hands clasped behind his back.

“What is it?” Bruce asked, taking a seat at the couch, reaching forward to pick up the letter and the glass.

“The _Daily Planet_ would like an interview with you, sir.”

“Again?”

Alfred quirked an eyebrow.

“The last one was several decades ago.”

“Oh.”

Time flew by too fast these days, it seemed.

Bruce picked up the crystal glass, swirling around the warm liquid inside, feeling his fangs poke through the meat of his gums at the heady scent.  Even after all these years, it was still much too easy to lose himself when he fed; all of his animalistic urges surfacing as the metallic rush of blood hit the air.  He had trained long and hard not to act on his impulses; to turn that hunger into the rage that fueled his fists, but, it was still difficult.  

It would always be difficult.  

Bruce downed the blood in a single mouthful, feeling it run thickly down his throat.  Setting the glass aside, he turned his attention to the letter on the tray.  

When he’d made his return to his familial home– after so many years of self-imposed exile–reborn as a new Bruce Wayne, lively and eager to reclaim his family’s fortune, the Gotham rags had gathered at the gates demanding interviews.   They always did, each time he returned; vultures swooping down on what they deemed to be easy prey to sate the stomachs of their employers.  However...the Daily Planet had always been a favorite of his father (those memories were becoming transparent with age now, but Bruce could clearly remember the thin folded newsprint lying in a stack beside his father’s desk, souvenirs from his travels to the glistening city of magic to the north), and Bruce himself had purchased the company when it began to struggle in the 60’s.  It was the _only_ paper he would allow to interview him, and the only one he would allow to print his picture.

With a fond smile, Bruce crossed to the antique telephone sitting beside the couch, dialing the number he knew by heart.  

“Give me a moment, won’t you Alfred?  I just want to get this scheduled before Mr. White goes home for the night.”  

“As you wish, master Bruce.”  The butler said, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

  


***

  


Metropolis was a city of science and ingenuity, held together by thousands of interconnecting threads of magic. New magic. Magic that glistened in the sky instead of lying low in the earth. Clark found this kind of magic harder to bear; more abrasive and sharp...however, he seemed to be the only one having that trouble. Metropolis was beautiful, platinum and pristine. The air was clean, the sky was clear and blue, the people smiled and waved. No evil could touch this place. It was safe.

Clark Kent didn’t belong.  

He’d fled the farm not too long after his father had passed away, running, running, running until he found himself surrounded by skyscrapers on all sides.  He’d gotten a meager job as a dishwasher for a while, hiding out  in abandoned apartments that should have been locked (but little was locked to him), until he had saved enough money for his own place.  Several grueling months and a couple of lucky breaks (courtesy of Superman) later, he found himself as a reporter for a newspaper called the Daily Planet.  

Life wasn’t good, but it was better.  

Clark often took his lunches in the park, where the magic was older and more familiar.  It felt more like the expanses of the cornfields–sprawling and endless–layered with gentle charms to keep the crops safe.  It felt like bonfires in the dark, and murmured spells beneath the light of the full harvest moon.  It felt like family, and familiarity, and the closest he could feel to belonging in a world that seemed to reject his very presence.

He took his normal spot on a bench beneath an old oak tree, sitting with his small sandwich, scattering crumbs of the crust for the large grey pigeons, and tearing off larger chunks for the brave squirrels gathering around his feet.  The lunch was all for show, just something to keep up appearances...he hadn’t eaten much at all since he’d left the farm...found that he didn’t really need to, and nothing he could make on his own tasted nearly as good as Ma’s family recipes.

“So this is where you go everyday, Smallville.”  

Clark looked up, finding Lois Lane–one of his coworkers at the Daily Planet–leaning over him.  Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders as her sharp eyes locked onto his, constantly cold and calculating.  They reminded him of the beautiful crystals from Krypton, sharp and regal, as well as welcoming and wise.  He’d only known her for a few months, but already he found himself bringing her coffee in the morning, and helping her out with whatever errands she needed to run.  He liked just being around her, watching with fascination as she followed the scent of a story all around the city until she found what she was looking for.  She was fearless.  She was ruthless.  

Clark thought that he might be developing a crush.  

“Y-yeah, Lois.”  The man replied, throwing another chunk of sandwich to a waiting squirrel.  “It’s nice to get away from the city for a bit.”  

“I guess.”  The woman drawled, taking a seat beside him.  “I was honestly just here to check out the new magic garden.  Heard it’s pretty ‘neat’.”  

Clark knew that tone of voice well.  She was just there for a story.  

“Magic garden?”  He asked, keeping his eyes trained on the pigeons flocking around.  

“It’s a new thing put out by Luthorcorp.”  Lois replied, rummaging around in her purse to find a notepad and pen.  “It’s filled with a whole bunch of flora that’s magically inclined, or something like that.  You know Luthor...everything has to be supernatural.”  

Clark felt a shiver run up his spine.  

Yes...he knew Luthor.  

“You gonna join me, or you gonna head back to the office?”

“I-I’ll go back to the office.”  Clark replied, throwing the rest of his sandwich to the animals before bundling up his lunch bag.  “It have...a-a story to work on, and if I don’t finish it–”

“Alright, Smallville.”  Lois said, getting to her feet.  “More for me then.  See ya in a bit.”  

“Okay.”  

Clark tipped his hat and shambled off, keeping his spine bent and head lowered.  It was no easy feat making his large frame seem small and unassuming, but, he’d been trying for years...hopefully it was at least a _little_ convincing.  

“Oh, and Clark?”  Lois called.  The man stopped to listen, fingers worrying at the fabric of his lunch bag as he waited to hear what she had to say.    

“White wants to see us in his office at 3:00, okay?”  

“Okay!”  He called.  

And then, the two continued on their way.    

* * *

  


Lex Luthor hated being in cars.  

They were large, monstrous hulks of metal, belching out acrid fumes, and causing awful noise pollution. Every time he was forced to ride in one, it felt as though his head was being scrambled; like cotton was being stuffed in his ears, and his nose, and his mouth and his eyes–

He hated it.  

But, walking everywhere was not an option, as his lungs were weak, and he could only hover short distances (unlike that menace, Superman), so he was relegated to riding in the highest quality limousine his fortune could buy.  

And still, he hated it.

He distracted himself by making sparks dance along his fingers, glowing green in the afternoon light.  Using his magic grounded him; made him feel as though he wasn’t trapped in a flying metal death machine.  Its presence soothed him, as it always did.  

Only a couple more minutes until he reached his destination.  He just had to hold on.  

* * *

  


Clark busied himself with his current workload as he waited for 3:00 to roll around.  He filed some papers, finished the latest draft of his piece on supernatural relations, and drank numerous cups of coffee to stay awake (whether or not the caffeine did anything for him was still up for debate).  Once, around 2:15, he had to run out and save someone from getting hit by a car, and then rescue a cat from a tree.  Then, he and the office intern, Jimmy Olsen, talked about the latest blockbuster movie for a while (though the conversation was pretty one-sided, as Clark didn’t like going to see movies very much).

Eventually, it was 3:00 and he shambled into Perry White’s office, Jimmy tagging along at his heels.  Lois was there as well.  

“As you might have heard.”  White began, with little preamble, leaning back in his oversized office chair.  “That there’s a Wayne back in Gotham.  Goes by the name of Bruce.  Must be some kind of family name or something.”  

“Wayne?”  Clark asked, frowning slightly.  He wasn’t very well-versed in celebrities, having grown up on a small farm in Kansas.  As much as he’d admired the glitz and glamor of city life, he’d never been one to obsess over the lives of strangers.  

“Clark, you’re such a country boy.”  Lois scoffed, rolling her eyes.  “The heir to Wayne Enterprises in Gotham.  The family’s been living out of the country and off the radar for decades.”

White nodded.

“We got word a couple of months back that he’d returned, and we’re the only newspaper the Waynes have ever let interview them, so I sent out a letter with a request, and he accepted.  Now, we need a crew to go out to Gotham right away, before he changes his mind.  Kent, Lois, Olsen, I want you on this.”  

“Oh boy!”  Jimmy cried, clutching his camera to his chest, eyes lighting up.  

Clark wished he could feel excited.  

Gotham...he couldn’t go to Gotham.  

“Can’t Kat or Lombard do it?”  The man stammered,  “I-I just don’t think I’m the man for the job.”

“What’s the matter, Smallville?  Afraid you’ll get mugged?”

Everyone in the office was staring at him.  

“No-no... Its just that, my ma said never to go to Gotham.”  He replied, wringing his hands.  “She’s clairvoyant and–”

“That kind of magic is so imprecise.”  Lois scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Come on Smallville, are you going to let your life be ruled by superstition?”

Clark shuffled uncomfortably, his fingers toying with the frayed ends of the protection knot around his wrist.  He silently pleaded with White not to make him go.  His mind just kept wandering to his mama, all alone in the farmhouse, waiting for him to come home.  What if he never saw her again?  What if Gotham was the end–

“Kent, if you don’t go, you’re fired.”  

Clark felt his stomach plummet into his shoes.  

“F-fired?”  He stammered.  “I–Mr. White, please–”

White leaned over his desk, his mustache bristling with barely controlled ire.

“You’re a good writer, Kent, but you’re not irreplaceable.  I’ve already agreed to keep you away from Luthor–”

Clark cringed at the mention of Lex Luthor.  Sick green magic _oozed_ from that man’s every pore, _thick, heavy, slimy_ stuff.  It made Clark sick to his stomach and weak.  

–”but I can’t keep making exceptions for _one_ reporter.  Don’t let your success inflate your head, or it’ll pop, and you’ll be out on the streets!”   

“I’m s-sorry Mr. White.”  The man replied, hanging his head.  “I’ll do it, just...we won’t be there too long, will we?”  

“Just a day.”

After work, Clark ran home to Smallville and spent the night helping out his mother.  She was very happy to see him, but something in her eyes told him that she knew…

She always knew.

  

***

  


*snick**snick*

Brilliant flame burst to light, sending a plume of grey smoke curling into the air as it was brought to the tip of a rumpled cigarette.  Commissioner James Gordon scanned the alley,  waiting for his silent visitor to make himself known.  

The acrid smoke burned his sensitive nostrils, making his eyes water, but he continued to inhale and exhale, watching as the white, curling tendrils wafted away in the breeze.  It calmed him down; helped to keep the beast at bay.  Tonight,  it was restless, excited by the glow of the bloated harvest moon, clawing and howling to be set free.  But he was strong...

It hadn’t gotten the best of him yet.  

“You’re going to dull that sharp nose of yours, Commissioner.”  

The voice was low and ominous, grating and intentionally rough, in an attempt to keep up a facade of secrecy.  Gordon huffed bitterly, throwing the burnt out cigarette to the ground before smashing it beneath the heel of his shoe.  

“Maybe that’s what I want to do.”  He replied, “This city smells like shit most of the time.”  

An unvoiced chuckle hung in the air between them as the figure faded out of the shadows, his long ink black wings folded tightly around his body.  Red eyes glinted in the darkness, the rest of his face hidden behind a black cowl, leaving only his mouth exposed...

His mouth whose corners were tinged with spattered red.

“Looks like you fed well tonight.”  Gordon deadpanned, narrowing his eyes at the creature.  

The monster reached a clawed hand up to the corner of his mouth, wiping the leftover blood away, giving an apologetic grunt.  

“They're tied up on West.  Totally fine.”

Gordon allowed himself a slight smile.

“I never doubt you, Batman.”

The vampire was silent for a moment, before extending his arms and unfolding the entire span of his wings, claws curved and at the ready, tufts of dark fur gathered around the creature’s neck, splattered with fresh blood.  

“You should.”  He said, just as cryptic as ever, trying to puff himself up to look like some hellish, demonic beast.  Gordon simply huffed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, waiting until the vampire was done with his display to continue.  

“Things have been quiet lately.”  He said, turning his eyes to the full moon.  A sour wind blew through the alley, strangely warm and stale for the late fall.  It made the hairs on Gordon’s arms stand on end…

Something was coming.

“You feel it too?”  The Batman asked, his voice strangely subdued.

“Yeah...and I think so do the _others_.  You’ll be busy until it passes.”  

“Good.”

 


End file.
